Lord Yarmouth was the son of Lady Hereford, for some years the prince’s mistress, a middle-aged lady who had little that was obvious to commend her as a beauty and whose presence at Court had long been a gift to the caricaturists.
Yarmouth, however, had brought with him a delectable young widowed countess from Paris. Regrettably, only a short stay, he was informed, but her eyes meeting those of the Prince Regent boldly across the table promised that a great deal might be achieved as his guest for a night or two.
Another conquest. He was greatly relieved that his new bedroom, although not yet completely decorated to his satisfaction, was ready for immediate occupancy.
Aware of Prime Minister Perceval seated as far away as possible and scowling at him from the far end of the table, he ignored the issues that had brought him to Brighton; to urge the Prince Regent to return to London immediately. Echoes of the Regency Bill of 1810 still threatened the smooth running of parliament with stormy debates between not only Whigs and Tories but also involving his own brothers.
Tonight at his side, seated very proudly in her prettiest gown, was his daughter Princess Charlotte, the unlikely source of his additional good humour. This was indeed a surprise to many of the prince’s more intimate guests, well aware of the uneasy relationship between the two. The servants too were taken aback, since the princess was normally excluded from dining even informally at the royal table.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Just an hour earlier, Princess Charlotte had sought out her father, timidly tapping on the library door where he was frowning over those beastly tiresome State documents to be discussed with Prime Minister Perceval.
He looked up, saw who it was and was very short with her. What did she want? And could it not wait?
‘Papa – sire – this is – is – quite – urgent.’ As always her father’s presence brought back that childish stammer, the feeling of inadequacy and disappointment forced upon her from birth.
‘Papa – I – I found – this.’ And with a trembling hand she laid down the Stuart Sapphire on his desk in front of him.
With a cry of triumph he seized it. Even clutched in his hand, he could hardly believe his eyes. ‘Where did this come from?’
‘From – from your bedroom, Papa – wh— which you have just – vacated – upstairs.’ And aware that he was not going to shout at her as usual, growing bolder, she added: ‘Actually, Papa, I rather like it – I was wondering—’
He held up an impatient hand. ‘Yes, yes, by all means, you can have anything. But tell me about this!’ Waving the sapphire, ‘Where did you get it?’ A sudden dark frown. ‘Who gave it to you?’
‘No one, Papa. I – I was looking around your – your old bedroom – thinking I might like to have it for my stay sometime – I dropped my shawl, and when I was picking – picking it off the floor, I saw jammed in between the boards, something – something shiny. And there it was—’
She stopped, giving him a wide-eyed innocent look. ‘I did not know that it was lost, Papa. I would have been most – most upset had I known.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Seeing that you had always promised it to me,’ she added reproachfully.
But her father was no longer listening. Relief flooded over him. All was well, his kingdom steadied again, no longer rocked to its foundations.
What a day it had been! The marchioness’s murder – solved. Poor Percy, but it did serve him right, just a bit! The missing Stuart Sapphire – solved. And waiting for him later this evening, if he could remain sober enough to enjoy her, that delightful creature, the French countess.
His cup of joy overflowing, he realised that now at last he could be rid of Mr Eildor. He would tell Townsend to get on with it. And now that the sapphire had been recovered, he might return to London immediately.
Yes indeed, he would summon Townsend first thing tomorrow morning, tell him that his services were no longer required. A gracious thank you and small reimbursement for his troubles should be sufficient.
But tonight there were even more important matters.
He smiled at Charlotte, warmed to her for a moment of gratitude. ‘Thank you, my dear. There is a young man we should like you to meet. Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg-Saalsfeld is coming to London shortly. Meanwhile, perhaps you would care to join us at dinner this evening. A little experience at entertaining our important guests—’
Charlotte did not care in the least about any young prince, but to be invited to one of her father’s banquets! She rushed forward, round the desk:
‘Oh thank you, Papa, thank you.’
For a dreadful moment he thought she was going to kiss him, but it was just a brief hug instead.
Townsend had, with some difficulty, completed his search of the Pavilion, assured by guards constantly on duty that no, they had not seen Mr Eildor.
He was certainly not on the premises and of course they would recognise him. But not even Mr Eildor, or Mr Townsend for that matter, they told him sternly, would be allowed to enter the royal apartments unchallenged.
Had Mr Townsend tried the guest apartments?
He had, as well as a thorough look around the gardens, so where could Eildor be hiding? He would hardly be wandering around Brighton, seeing that he had no money and no friends.
Then Townsend had a sudden inspiration. Remembering that conversation with Lord Henry and Lady Gemma when they had arrived from Creeve House, Eildor might well have taken refuge with Mrs Fitzherbert.
Hastening to Steine House, he was informed by a footman that he had missed Mrs Fitzherbert. Madam had left half an hour ago in her carriage. No, he did not know Madam’s destination nor the identities of her companions. But should Mr Townsend care to leave a message?
Walking down the steps Townsend realised the significance of the carriage. Eildor would already be on the outskirts of Brighton, ready to catch the London coach. As he stood on the Steine, wondering what to do next, he saw a rider approaching from the promenade, heading towards the Pavilion.
By a stroke of luck it was one of the Dragoons guards who knew him well. Attracting his attention, Townsend explained that he was in pursuit of a dangerous criminal and asked if he could possibly borrow his horse? The man looked doubtful until Townsend insisted that this was an urgent mission and vital to the safety of HRH. So, agreeing somewhat reluctantly, and saying this was a very fast horse, he dismounted.
Watching Townsend ride off, as he made his way back to the Pavilion, the officer wondered what all the fuss was about, as neither he nor any of his comrades had heard of any threats to their royal master.
Townsend was jubilant. Riding a good, fast horse he should easily overtake a leisurely carriage, and he was now quite confident that Eildor’s destination was the coaching inn some four miles down the road. There he would lie in wait, and arrest Eildor. Having failed miserably to locate the Stuart Sapphire, perhaps some of that failure would be forgiven and forgotten when it became public that he had solved and captured single-handedly the Marchioness of Creeve’s murderer.
The fact that Eildor would be shot trying to escape would also, he felt sure, be the wisest and most agreeable solution to any scandal threatening the Prince Regent.
As Mrs Fitzherbert’s carriage came in sight of the coaching inn, Tam realised that this was indeed journey’s end. They had travelled almost in silence, preoccupied and anxious, for even he suspected Maria Fitzherbert knew that there was more at stake than whether it would stay fine for a moonlight picnic.
Alighting from the carriage, Tam was relieved to see that the inn was on the cliff road, within sight of the sea. Following them into the inn, he made his decision. He must take his chance on the sea being at hand and trust that the microchip would see him back to his own time, and not leave him stranded in some dread limbo of past or future.
Making his excuses in the already overcrowded inn with no chance to say lingering farewells, no chance to grasp Gemma’s hand or kiss her cheek, he slipped the coins Henry had given him for his coach fare
into her reticule and announced that he would take a look outside as there were other travellers gathered to board the London coach.
Alone, he walked the short distance to the edge of the cliff, appearing just as a casual observer. He heard the horn and the vibration of the horses’ hooves announcing the imminent arrival of the London coach.
Turning, he thought he saw Gemma’s face at the window of the inn.
Raising his hand in farewell, at the same instant his name was called.
‘Mr Eildor!’
It was Townsend on horseback.
‘A word with you, sir. A word, if you please.’
This was it. ‘Goodbye, Brighton. Goodbye, Gemma, dear lovely Gemma, be happy,’ he whispered.
Townsend had dismounted. ‘You cannot escape, Mr Eildor. I have you now!’ he said triumphantly.
He heard a noise, a vibration like air being sucked out of the world around him and the place he had seen Eildor standing just yards away was empty.
Empty? Damn the man, he had escaped, he had jumped off the steep road down on to the stony beach.
‘Come back! I’ll have you yet!’ he yelled.
He ran to the road’s edge, his pistol cocked at the ready, but there was no sign of Eildor. Or of any living soul, the shore deserted as far as the eye could see, an azure line on the horizon, the sea at ebb tide.
Had Eildor slipped past him, and joined the coach? Impossible that he could not have seen him, and as he walked back to the horse, he almost tripped over a black cloak and a pair of shoes. All that remained of Tam Eildor to show that he had been there at all.
Townsend felt suddenly quite ill. It was a magician’s trick, of course, no one in his experience had ever vanished into thin air. But how the devil was he going to explain all this to the Prince Regent? Or to himself?
He had quick look in the coach, which was about to leave. Eildor was not among the passengers.
Going into the inn, just to make sure, he fought his way over to a table where Mrs Fitzherbert, Lord Henry and Lady Gemma were taking a little refreshment.
Approaching them, he bowed and stating the obvious: ‘Mr Eildor is not with you?’
He was told: ‘He left just moments ago for the London coach.’
They were smiling, laughing at him, three conspirators.
Damn them, damn them. Ordering a pint of ale and a pie he went to another table and there he tried to work out logically what had happened.
Was it possible that Eildor had somehow slipped by him and hidden on the coach? Surely he was not journeying to London in his bare feet? He might have dropped the cloak by accident, but he would never have abandoned a good pair of shoes. That took a lot of explanation.
The three conspirators had their backs towards him, Lord Henry in casual conversation with Mrs Fitzherbert, and Lady Gemma looking intently out of the window.
They heard the coach leave. ‘Got away all right, has he?’ asked Henry.
‘Just perfectly,’ said Gemma who knew the truth and had seen Tam vanish from the cliff road. Fighting back tears and smiling at Henry, she realised that someday he must be told.
But not, of course, until they were married.
Epilogue
The events portrayed in this book are entirely fictitious and I have taken certain liberties with the historical characters, based on biographical accounts of their lives.
The Prince Regent became George IV on the death of his father ‘mad’ King George III in 1821. His hedonistic lifestyle continued with overindulgence in food, wine and mistresses until his death in June 1830.
Maria Fitzherbert, abandoned by the prince, continued to live in Brighton until her death in 1837 and lies buried in St John the Baptist’s Catholic Church.
John Townsend, most celebrated of Bow Street officers, thief-taker for thirty-four years, continued his colourful career working for the Bank of England and for individual prosecutors.
Beau Brummell finally fell from royal favour and in 1813 fled to Calais to escape his creditors. Continuing a life of dissipation and gambling debts, he died in a pauper’s lunatic asylum in 1840.
Princess Charlotte found true love at last. In 1816, aged twenty, she married Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld, a brief happiness and romance which presaged that of Albert and Victoria, his nephew and niece, a generation later. In 1817 she sadly died after giving birth to a well-formed but stillborn son.
The Stuart Sapphire, to be viewed to this day in the Queen’s crown, was returned by Charlotte’s heartbroken husband to the Prince Regent, who, in company with the rest of Britain, mourned her with all the passion he had lacked in loving her during her short life.
Had Charlotte and her son survived, however, the Georgians would have continued to rule over us and we might never have known the Victorian age.
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About the Author
Alanna Knight has written more than sixty novels, three non-fiction titles on R.L. Stevenson, two true crime books, numerous short stories and several plays since the publication of her first book in 1969. Born and educated in Tyneside, she now lives in Edinburgh. She is a member of the Scottish chapter of the Crime Writers’ Association, and a founder member and Honorary President of the Scottish Association of Writers and of the Edinburgh Writers’ Club.
www.alannaknight.com
By Alanna Knight
THE ROSE MCQUINN SERIES
The Inspector’s Daughter
Dangerous Pursuits
An Orkney Murder
Ghost Walk
Destroying Angel
Quest for a Killer
Deadly Legacy
THE INSPECTOR FARO SERIES
Murder in Paradise
The Seal King Murders
Murders Most Foul
THE TAM EILDOR SERIES
The Gowrie Conspiracy
The Stuart Sapphire
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
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First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2005.
This ebook edition published by Allison & Busby in 2013.
Copyright © 2005 by ALANNA KNIGHT
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–1447–6
The Stuart Sapphire Page 23